


Understanding

by Dallas



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Intimacy, Morning Routines, Shaving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-20
Updated: 2014-11-20
Packaged: 2018-02-26 08:41:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2645471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dallas/pseuds/Dallas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is so much more to them than anyone could imagine. More than social responsibilities and arranged marriages. At the centre of it all they are still just two people who trust each other explicitly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Understanding

He watches her in the mirror as she enters the bathroom and goes about her morning routine. There’s something about the way she looks first thing in the morning that he really loves. Her heavy lidded eyes barely staying open, her hair - still partially straightened from the previous days’ charm - shaggy and sticking up in odd places, with her mouth turned down in a small pout. Having brought her breakfast tray up himself he knows she will have at least picked at her fruit before venturing out of bed. Still, morning is not her favourite time of day and until she’s completely over the hurdle of waking up it’s hard to tell just how long she’s been awake. He likes that image just as much as any other occasion in which her facade is broken. When he can admire her unconfined body and everything she feels and thinks is written clearly - for him - across her face. As she glances in her own mirror and meets his gaze he gives her a small smile before binding his hair back and continuing his own routine.

People wonder about the two of them, he knows that. Girls at the club like to think it would be easy to come between them. In the early days women in their own circle tried their hand. But none were her and none could ever hope to be. They didn’t understand their relationship, he couldn’t expect them to. Just as he had no knowledge of what went on behind their closed doors they had no knowledge of his private life. That was, indeed, why it was called private. Still they tried, for whatever reason. Certain that becoming the mistress of the Lestrange heir would be just as beneficial as having been his spouse. Why they don’t scramble to obtain his unwed brother, he can never be sure. But he knows what people think of them, what gets spread behind their backs. Not that it matters.

Shaving cream smothers his cheeks and his neck. The brush is soft against his skin even with the thick cream getting in the way. He sets it aside and picks up his straight razor, flicking it open as he grasps the end of the strop and pulls it out from where it is joined to the vanity. ‘Always keep your razor sharp,’ he remembers his Father saying while he and Rabastan watched him shave on numerous occasions. ‘There is no excuse for a dull blade, boys.’ He strops it with a practiced hand, the movement quick. Once, twice, a third time. He can feel her eyes on him and he looks up to see her watching him as she brushes her teeth. Her hair has been brushed but left out, her face has been washed but untouched by make-up. She has other things on her mind, as does he. With a steady hand he begins with his cheeks, removing the whiskers that had grown since the morning before, ensuring his beard is neat and respectable. By the time he has finished his face she has joined him at his vanity, perching on the edge and watching with that intensity he adores. He rinses the blade in the basin and wipes it against his towel before closing it and offering the handle to her.

She unhooks the stropping leather first and moves it to a hook on the wall so she can turn and sharpen the razor herself. She knows how it works, she has seen him do it one hundred times before. He has taught her how to care for the blade just as her own Father did when she would help him shave. It is a strange thing they have both grown up mesmerised by for two completely different reasons. She strops it carefully, not wishing to damage the edge, and smirks as she catches him smiling at her attentiveness.

Prepared for another round he tilts his chin up, moving to stand between her knees as he offers her his neck. Her tongue wets her lower lip before she draws it between her teeth. The blade is pressed to his skin firmly. The wrong action at that moment could have her sprayed with blood as he falls to the floor. She could be a widow in an instant if she wished it. They both know the extent of her skills and her fascination with all things macabre. The razor moves slowly, dragged ever downwards, coming to a halt only when it has reached the base of his neck. She rinses the blade and wipes it against the towel. No witty remark, no cheeky expression. She is focused on her task and continues with a serious demeanour as though it is one of the oft spoken of duties expected of a wife. She has no designs on him beyond getting the job done and savouring the moment just as he does.

That is what outsiders fail to understand. They are equals, seeking out the same pleasures and assurances. He trusts her explicitly just as she puts his trust in him. And to his mind, nothing could change that.


End file.
